


Foil

by abominable



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Kissing, Dry Humping, Fencing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abominable/pseuds/abominable
Summary: Arthas' practices have been going poorly lately, and it's just getting worse. Shame he and his trainer keep fighting, otherwise they might make progress!
Relationships: Uther the Lightbringer/Arthas Menethil
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Foil

**Author's Note:**

> written for prompt challenge :)  
> this is objectively bad work and that's ok im just obsessed and want to post more of Them ok.
> 
> i barely know how fencing works even after research, and this is a context-free scene of what is sort of a large AU. the only context needed is their relationship's unfulfilled.

“Again.” Arthas barks, voice muffled through his mask. It is an order that is met with hesitation, the foil in his opponent’s hand remains tilted downwards, its wielder moving not back into stance, but merely to glance at Arthas, then away with apparent reservation. Arthas grinds his teeth and tightens the grip on his own foil. When he repeats himself, he leaves no room for question-it’s an order.

“ _Again_!”

His opponent is hesitant, but he falls into stance and in a flash, they begin. Parry, parry, the attacker presses Arthas back one, two steps, two too many. The click-clack of the foils meeting is only less fervent than the shuffle of their gaits. Two steps forward, another back, two more forward, Arthas dives for the kill-he’s deflected. His tongue tastes sour, he goes again, hoping to catch his opponent on the rebound-but instead he finds the press of a tip to his ribs and across the room comes a voice,

“Point to Thassarian.”

Arthas throws his foil, the sabre clatters against the nearest wall-he wrenches off his helmet and paces away, breathing hard and seeing _red_.

Three points in a row. _There was no goddamn way_!

Thassarian lingers where he had gained his point, taking some time to remove his helmet and looking embarrassed as he did so, like he ought to have-have feigned the fight, thrown it. As Arthas looks over his shoulder, breaths coming in hard, painful pants he paints the scene so convincingly that he forgets it isn’t real. Thassarian faltering, going too slow, trying to give Arthas a point, but managing to strike him anyway! Arthas had lost to a _thrown match_!? He could _spit_!

“Again.” He snarls, striding towards his discarded foil to retrieve it. Once more, Thassarian does not move. He glances, just like before, to their referee, to-

“That’s enough for today, actually.” _Uther_. He stands at the sidelines, arms over his chest and hands tucked under his upper arms, just as he had started. Unphased as ever, a cliff against the roaring sea, he almost looked bored.

“One more.” Arthas retorts, feeling more demanding than his hitched, oh-so-nettled voice sounds.

“ _That’s enough for today_.” Comes the reply, the ever-immovable object’s eyes fixated entirely on panting, angry Menethil. Arthas disregards him, crouches to scoop up his foil, but finds when he returns upright that Thassarian is already retreating past Uther and towards the door, shoulders low and head lower. Meek as always, _the coward_. Bile like poison in Arthas’ mouth, he strides towards Uther with purpose, but no plan.

“He kept throwing the matches!”

“He most certainly did not.”

“He wasn’t trying-”

“ _He was_! You lost by an inch, Arthas!”

“Fuck off, I can’t do this anymore!”

“ _You can_.”

Arthas steps off the mat to hover inches from Uther, who remains exactly as before, his only change being the decline of his sightline to meet Arthas’ eye. His expression is disappointed, Arthas is certain he expected better-he _always_ expects better. They stay like that for a moment, both unblinking, one breathing hard and the other chewing his tongue. Uther blinks first, and Arthas would consider it a petty, meaningless win if not for how Uther’s sight had dared to flicker. His dark, earthy eyes flit from Arthas’ own to just below, then over, then lower. It takes a moment, but the realization that hits Arthas is cripplingly embarrassing.

He must have begun to flush-his complexion had never really recovered from the accident however-many winters ago, but it was only ever in Uther’s presence that Arthas’ composure slipped enough to paint his pale body with ugly, angry, too-red blotches. Arthas drops his helmet, clapping the now-empty hand over his ear to feel if it’s hot-and through his gloves he can just barely tell that it is.

He turns away, jaw setting at a painful angle, Uther takes the opportunity-a figurative dive while the other fencer is weak.

“You’re focusing too hard. You need to take time to rest or you’re going to keep making rookie mistakes.”

“ _Rookie mistakes_.” Arthas spits, glaring up at Uther again and searching his soul for something clever and cruel to barb at him in return. But Uther insults him first, crueler than ever, by daring to look at him with _pity_. His greying brows had, at some point, grown tight together, and his big, dark eyes shimmer with some kind of bridled emotion. Under his snowy moustache, his lips twitch in their frown, as if they feign to say something, but the rest of him knows better of it.

If Arthas hadn’t been broken into hives already…

Menethil draws in a long, unfulfilling breath before he jerks his head at the nearest rack.

“I want to go again. Get a foil.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“ _Uther_!”

“ _Arthas_.” His pretty eyes shimmer, the concern Uther shows flays Arthas to his bones. Humiliating, frustrating, Arthas wants it to make him more furious, and he supposes it does, but not without a flip in his gut, a tremble in his thighs. _Sentimental old man_ , he wants to spit, _don’t you look at me like that when you won’t even-_.

“How am I supposed to get better if I don’t practice?” He manages instead, tone low enough to hide the jitter he was certain would live in it if he spoke any louder. Uther’s lips flex, pressing into a tight line, Arthas cannot help but watch them pale with the pressure, the sun-spot that dashes the edge of his bottom lip remaining the only part that doesn’t white out. Arthas fixates on that bit of Uther a lot, and all the other little flecks of brown, freckles that distract him when he’s supposed to take instruction, spots that entertain him when what’s being said doesn’t matter.

But right now? He finds it just makes him angrier.

“How are you supposed to practice if you wear yourself out?” Uther responds, tone just an inch less even. He’s getting angry, too, and something about that is comforting, but no amount of comfort can give Arthas anything witty to reply with. He steams, Uther glowers, they stand toe to toe and just inches from nose-to-nose. Arthas thinks it would feel good to close that gap, press their foreheads together and scream, but there are better ways to break Uther down a peg or ten. Arthas’ empty glove grasps the front of Uther’s flannel shirt, and _there_ , he finally wins.

Uther breaks easy, as he always does.

In no time at all, Arthas is caged against the wall, Uther’s knees slotted between his own, and their teeth clack together between too-loud, too deep kisses. There’s a skittering noise, Uther kicks the foil Arthas’d finally dropped out of the way and it’s a motion that grinds his body that much closer to his own. Arthas twists his hands in Uther’s patchwork hair, feeling the grips catch and break a dozen hairs with the motion-it makes Uther grunt right into Arthas’ mouth, and _oh_ , that goes right to Arthas’ dick.

They rut there, against the wall, the padded fencer’s jacket doing little to let them feel each other, but the pressure’s almost good enough in spite of it. Especially twinned with their shared snarls, the grunt Uther gives when Arthas bites that sunspot on his lip, the feeling of Uther’s tongue in the shell of his ear when the former finally breaks the contact of their mouths to eat away _other_ parts of him.

They’d probably have finally, _finally-christ-finally_ gotten out of hand-Uther’s hand was trying to displace the thong of Arthas’ jacket, after all, if the door hadn’t opened.

Uther, yellow and weak, is halfway across the room at the first _click_ of the door. Arthas’ knees bowed, mostly from the lack of support he was left with, and slowly he sank against the wall until Arthas sat plainly on the floor, elbows on his knees and eyes cold on the intruder.

Thassarian froze at the door, a hesitant hand so-meekly reaching for the phone he’d left behind on the table just to the left of the room’s entrance.

“Sorry-” he murmured, trying to turn away quick from what he surely assumed had been the middle of a spat. Arthas’ teeth found his own tongue, wishing it was Uther’s, wishing Thassarian would accurately guess what had been happening, so it wouldn’t end, so it would _have_ to get addressed.

But as Uther followed Thassarian’s retreat, Arthas knew it had very-much ended. _Maybe next time_ , he thinks, the back of his skull finding the wall with a dull, but no-less painful thunk, _I’ll win next time_.

**Author's Note:**

> i love my friends for supporting my nonsense thanks for readin


End file.
